


Floofers

by LazBriar



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Angel Dust - Freeform, Cute, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fish stuff, Gen, M/M, One Shot, Short, tits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-12 21:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21233186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazBriar/pseuds/LazBriar
Summary: You and Angel Dust talk about an aquarium until the conversation takes an "interesting" turn.





	Floofers

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy reader!
> 
> What you're about to dive into is a non-specific piece primarily from the other works I've done, taking place a little bit after "The Thief, The Spider, and The Hotel." However, worth noting things are vague enough here that you don't need to know the former to enjoy.
> 
> This is a little blurb I wanted toss out, what with post pilot release and all. And, to welcome all the newcomers! What better way than Angel's fluff?

**Floofers**

“Nnh. I’unno ‘bout this.”

Angel’s cheek rests in hand, others tapping at his table while he casts mismatched eyes against the wall. Or, more specifically, something resting against the wall. It’s a benign object, nothing grandiose in compared to the rest of his pink quarters – a box of glass with nothing in it. Yet.

“I promise, it’s therapeutic.”

The mysterious shape is – or will be – an aquarium. Ten gallons, nothing elaborate, enough to sustain Hell’s equivalent of freshwater fish, seeing as the alternative is vastly more complex. It came upon you, this idea, to perhaps start a joint project with Angel Dust, something you both could work on, ease you through the days.

He grumbles, teeth clenched. “Yeah? Well, I fuckin’ hate water.”

You chuckle. “You take showers.”

“That’s _different. _That’s like. . . I’m doin’ that, I decide that. Big bodies of water? Brbhbh.”

He shivers, form shaking. “Gives me da’ fuckin’ willies.”

You’ve heard this a few times before. Angel, as it turned out, had a case of hydrophobia, but because Hell was so _lacking _in that department (at least with the City) it didn’t come up often.

“Ten gallons is a lot of water, eh?” you say with a gentle smirk. He shoots you a glance, flipping you off.

“As o’ matter of fact, wise guy, it is! I hate the way it feels, it’s. . . blegh!”

Now you raise your hands. “It’s okay. You don’t have to, peppermint.”

He pauses, crossing his legs, staring at the box of glass like it might form eyes and teeth and leap at him. He brushes a hand across his hair tuft, huffing.

“Nah, I wanna’, I guess. I’m _gonna’. _Ain’t no fuckin’ fish jail gonna’ scare me!”

He puffs up his chest, defiant, fluff “cleavage” pressing forward. Then he deflates, looking away. “All right, maybe just a little.”

You don’t like seeing your spider out of it like this. Devil knows between you two there’s a vault of problems, and, it’s hard enough with how _reserved _you both can be about it. But, you trust him, and you want him to feel okay, and safe, and happy.

“Can I ask why?”

He looks at you. “Why what?”

You clear your throat, pointing at the empty aquarium. “You know, the fear thing. Of bodies of water.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, staring, like he’s considering whether or not he wants to. He crosses his arms. “No. You’ll laugh at me.”

You _do _laugh, but not because of him. “I will _not.”_

“Ya’ just did, asshole!”

“Angel, please, it’s all right. You can tell me anything.”

Again, he pauses, leaning back in his chair, legs stretching. His not in use usual _Valentino _suit, rather adorned in a casual pink tee with shorts up to his thigh, exposing slender legs.

“Awh fuckin’ right. Just, water, I ain’t got control. I think about bein’ surrounded by it and fallin’ it and I wanna’ _scream. _Ya’ know? I take care of _all this, _Anon,” he says, gesturing at his lovely frame with all four arms. You don’t disagree.

“And it ain’t easy! Gotta’ stay in shape, gotta’ get the right fittings, keep er’ nice and slim, keep it soft. Shit ya’ think my girls just pop by themselves!?”

He pats his chest, giving said “girls” a squeeze. “It’s like you and dem uh, stupid plans ya’ always makin’ up.”

You chuckle. “Hey!”

“Hey fuck you get offa’ my cloud. But you’ze always scribblin’ and plannin’ and then, what, it goes kaput? Imagine if some palooka poured water on ya’ map thingies.”

You cross your arms. “Water. . . would make it worse, yes.”

Angel throws two of his in the air. “Allll of it’s worse! I can’t control anythin’ in water, and, well. Ya’ know, I _prefer _bein’ in control.”

He grumbles. “Ban water, it’s stupid.”

You rub your neck. “I don’t think we can ban all water, Angel. But that’s not all true. Don’t you use it for, well, _you?_”

He looks away. “That’s different.”

You won’t press him too hard. Besides, you get the idea. A big body of water is no doubt terrifying on its own, but for the spider, more so. Last thing you want is to stress him, especially for an idea that’s meant to help you both, not make it worse. Maybe you’ll plug it for now.

“Nobody wants their hard work ruined,” you say, comforting. He gives a single, defiant nod.

“Dat’s right.”

“I confess uh, I don’t know _how _much work you put into it.”

Now, Angel looks back to you, dawning a sneer, gold tooth glinting. “Ya’ mean my tits?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Angel Dust chuckles, a dark purr leaving him. “Oh yes ya’ did. Ya’ didn’t say it, but ya’ _said _it.”

His head tilts, watching you like a predator. Is it getting hot? It’s getting a little hot.

“So ya’ wanna know how da’ sausage is made, eh?” he continues, quite happy to abandon the subject of aquarium to something about himself. Again, he adjusts his chest, tossing them in little vertical hops.

“Er, well,” you say, clearing throat. “I’m sure you uh, work hard.”

Angel shifts, his graceful form standing. Uh oh. He was doing the thing where he _elevated. _When he moves, you get an eyeful of his lithe frame, supple curves and all, and a part of you starts to boil over. How’d you get here? You were talking about water a second ago!

He comes to you, couple of arms around your shoulders. “Curious?”

“Y-yes?”

He presses his smooth lips against your cheek. “Atta’ boy. I’d be _d’lighted _to fill ya’ in on all the _touchy _details.”

His kiss is soft and kind, despite the nature of, well, _him. _It fills you with a welcoming warmth and, like a venom, you’re a little dizzy on the spider. Your hand slips to his thigh.

“Fill me up, baby.”

He frowns. “Don’t steal my material.”

You chuckle back. “That’s what I do, Angel.”

He snorts, shoving you before you topple backward into the bed, fluffy pink sheets embracing you in welcoming silk. “Shuddup.”

He hops on your waist, and in one smooth motion, strips off the pink top. At once, all of him is revealed, all the parts you’ve come to love and appreciate. It’s easy to infatuate oneself with Angel’s assets. His curves, yes, but over time it’s the smaller things you adore. The slope of his shoulder, the splash of pink freckles over his frame, the gentle ambrosia of wet fluff combined with perfume, his welcoming tummy and. . . yes. His “tits.”

“So what was I sayin’?” he says, wiggling haunches on your abdomen.

“Erm. Tits?”

He snaps a finger. “Oh yeh! M’girls. Well, _mister Anon, _fuckin’ around aside, it takes time. It’s a three part process! One, _Golden Silk _conditioner to get dat’ nice, soft smooth feel. Here. . .”

He grins, taking your wrist with gentle pressure and bringing it to his chest. “Feeeeel.”

Oh yes, indeed, his fluff is fascinating. It’s puffy but also strangely firm. There’s buoyancy to it, weight, even, despite it being an exaggerated part of his body. Its supple and welcoming to the touch, tickling your palm with enticing sensations.

You’re getting hotter. “Nice and bouncy, ain’t they?”

“I admit,” you say, giving a squeeze. “There’s some bounce here.”

“Yeah, well, cause I use the good shit. Gives em’ that toss, ya’ know? After conditioner I scrub extra hard, _then _toss in da’ strawberry shampoo. Now I know a buncha broads get uppity ‘bout this, but I do it in reverse, cause I want the scent, _and, _easier fer me to brush. Ya’ get me?”

You blink. “. . .uh.”

He snickers. “Of course ya’ do!”

He leans now, taking your _other _hand and pushing it into his chest, forcing your palms to rotate and squeeze at the delicate mounds. “Nmmm, nice huh?”

You’re losing the ability to form words.

“And then after I dry off and carefully, _carefully, _use m’ivory handle brush. Fifty strokes up, fifty down!”

His fluff spills onto your hands, surprisingly immense. You could. . . probably get lost in his cleavage. But, his words aren’t lost on you. After all, activity aside, he is sharing his private routine with you.

“That’s a lot,” you say. You squeeze again, causing him to shudder. “_This _is a lot.”

“Oh yeah?” he says, leaning forward. His extra arm slips around your neck to force your head up, pushing you into his fluff.

“Ya’ know, been kinda’ nice not havin’ to clean the spunk outta em’ all the time, heh.”

You didn’t quite hear him, because your head’s buried between the embrace of his bouncy chest. The scent drives you wild, filling you with wanting heat, like liquid flash fire in your veins. You breathe him in, a hand coming to his side, holding and squeezing, caressing while he continues about the scientific specifics of tit measurements.

After a moment, he pauses, smiling. “Mm. Yeh. Ya’ get it now? If I go in big water, well. . .”

Your face is positively flushed. “. . .no more floofers?”

He pauses, processing, then starts to snicker and giggle, snorting. “If ya’ put it like that. Yeah, them tits is eighty-sixed! Vamoosed to flatsville! And pockets, ain’t nothin’ worse then cans flatter than day old pop, lemme tell ya’.”

Considering where your eye is staring, yeah. “Hmm. Okay, you got me.”

Urgh, you’re getting pretty stiff. Angel senses this, pushing his backside onto your lip, wiggling, wearing a wicked, knowing sneer. You attempt to alter the conversation.

“Look,” you say, rasping. “We don’t have to do the aquarium. If it bugs you, you know, I don’t want that.”

The spider stops a moment, frowning. He rubs your head, glancing at the glass box.

“Naw, no. No. I’m gonna’ do it. Well, _we _gonna’ do it, right? Cause we best pals. It just. . . water. Blegh. But I trust ya’.”

He switches almost immediately. “Now, we done talkin’ bout that chum bucket or ya’ gonna let me handle this fishtstick?” he says, palm racing to your crotch to grant it a hard squeeze.

You grunt. “Ahhhh. . .”

He laughs again. “Ya’ real fuckin’ cute when ya’ act like ya don’t want it. ‘Sides, after all this talk about big tits. . .”

He spins, in a series of rapid motions getting you undone until your cock springs free. “Or, whatcha’ call em? Floofers?”

You manage a weak smile.

You don’t manage much else, because Angel assaults you with the embrace of his chest, his rump shoved into your face while he does. His taut, firm cleavage clasps around your inches and he shoves his palms together, hugging you in a grip of, well, _him. _He strokes in slow, practiced grooves, a perfect piston engine coaxing long, excited groans from you. He doesn’t help when he grants the tip of your flank with a kiss, a gentle, suckling bess.

“Mwah.”

Doesn’t take long to push you to peak, not with his skills. Sooner than you realize, you burst to orgasm, and alas, a jet of white coats his precious “floofers,” though he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Awch!” he coughs in faux disappointment. “M’girls!

He turns around to face you, chest covered in spots of white. “Guess ya’ gonna have to help me clean em’, huh?”

You force a raspy chuckle, chest heaving and nodding. All he had to do was ask.

-*-

A couple days pass and you and Angel start to consider the dimensions of the aquarium, what goes in it and what kind of Hell-themed fish life. Angel, of course, goes with pink for interior, lots and _lots _of pink.

“I wanna’ pick the fish,” he says, ogling the empty glass box. “And I wanna’ name one!”

“Of course,” you say. “Any ideas?”

He snickers. “. . .Floofy.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's gonna' be an angelfish, isn't it?


End file.
